


fuzzy gray

by envysparkler



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Depression, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Good Sibling Jason Todd, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Tim Drake Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27529855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/envysparkler/pseuds/envysparkler
Summary: Dick has a bad day.  Good thing he has a little brother.(Bonus chapter: Tim has a bad day.  Good thing he has his brothers.)
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 224
Kudos: 1183
Collections: Jason and Tim Enemy-to-Caretaker





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ~~time to write out my feelings again i guess~~
> 
> Fun fact: this story idea is titled 'Jason happens upon Dick having a bad day and freaks the fuck out' in my idea document.
> 
> Content warnings: descriptions of depression, from both an internal and external perspective, (mistaken) assumptions of drug abuse.

Jason couldn’t hide the grin as he slowly creaked the window open. He’d managed to sneak out of the Manor without alerting anyone, the bus to Bludhaven had been shockingly on time, and he was an hour early, but the prospect of finally, _finally_ spending some time with the original Robin was too precious to risk Dick deciding to change his mind.

He didn’t know why the older boy had finally agreed to Jason’s requests for a team-up, but Dick had promised to take him train surfing that night, and Jason was determined to not do anything to mess that up.

And being early meant he could sneak in and maybe actually catch Nightwing off guard. For a vigilante, the locks on the windows had been depressingly easy to open, and Jason double-checked the windowsill for traps before he slipped inside.

The apartment was silent, but Jason could hear soft breathing and he stifled his giggle as he crept closer to the couch, a mop of dark hair just barely visible. Maybe he should find a permanent marker and scribble the older boy’s namesake all over his face. Or the warm bowl of water trick. Or maybe Jason would just pile all of the ridiculous mismatched cushions over his equally ridiculous older brother and take lots of pictures.

Dick was stretched out along the couch, his feet dangling over the armrest, his head wedged into the opposite corner, an arm crossed over his eyes. Jason muffled his footsteps and eased closer, before blowing a puff of air onto Dick’s face.

“Hey, wake up Dickhead!”

Dick didn’t even twitch.

Jason rolled his eyes and grabbed Dick’s arm, intending to drag the older boy from his nap – okay, so maybe Jason was early, but _Dick_ had been the one to invite him over, and the whole apartment was a mess, and Jason wasn’t going to sit and stare at the asshole sleeping for the rest of the afternoon, and –

Dick’s eyes were open, and they slowly slid to Jason’s face when Jason yanked his arm off. He blinked, staring straight at Jason like he was looking _through_ him, and Jason felt a frisson of unease.

“Dick?” Jason asked quietly.

Dick continued staring. “Jay?” he said finally, his voice barely a whisper.

Jason jerked a step back in shock. He knew that tone. He’d heard it so many times.

_– “Jay,” his mother crooned, reaching for him with trembling fingers, before clarity deserted her again. –_

No. No no no no _no_.

Jason cast a frantic glance around the apartment – dust on the side tables. Plates piled high in the sink. A dirty pile of laundry on the floor, a bathroom with rust-red streaks drying on the tile, an empty fridge.

No. This wasn’t happening. Not _again_. Jason couldn’t do this again, couldn’t watch the light flicker and die in empty eyes, couldn’t be helpless and stuck and trapped behind a glass wall as he watched them waste away.

“What did you _do_?” Jason hissed, his eyes burning, as he shook Dick. He knew his grip was painfully tight, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of Dick’s shoulders. “Goddammit, Dickhead, you can’t do this!”

“Jay?” Dick repeated, lost, “Why are you here?”

“You invited me!” Fighting the tears was a losing battle – his breath caught in his throat and his voice cracked. He thought that this particular nightmare had ended when his mother died, he couldn’t watch Dick – gleaming, golden, always sunny Dick goddamn Grayson – do this too, he _couldn’t_ –

“Right,” Dick sighed, resignation coloring his tone. Jason angrily swiped at his eyes and grabbed Dick’s arms, searching for evidence, for how long this had been going on – Jason should’ve _realized_ , should’ve noticed, he knew that Bruce had his head stuck up in rich-people-clouds but Jason knew all the signs, he should’ve –

Dick’s arms were clear. There were a few scars scattered across the dull, clammy skin, but no evidence of track marks. Jason scrubbed at the skin – if he’d used makeup, or some high-tech fancy fake skin or something – until Dick hissed and shifted an inch back with a quiet, “ _Jay_.”

Jason knew that he was nowhere near Nightwing’s level, that if Dick sincerely wanted him off, he’d be eating carpet right now, and the golden boy had just pressed his face to the couch cushions without even _trying_ to fight back.

“What did you take?” Jason said, uncaring that his voice had risen to a shriek. Not everything needed to be injected, he knew that, he’d picked up that much, and needles were dangerous, so maybe rich people drugs were –

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dick said, slowly and carefully, before slumping deeper into the cushions, his eyes sliding half-shut.

“Don’t give that bullshit, Dickhead, I’m from _Crime Alley_ , you think I can’t see it?” Jason hissed, keeping his voice low and ignoring the swelling, choking feeling in his throat.

Dick groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. “Go away,” he mumbled.

“You promised to take me train-surfing!” Jason yelled, grabbing Dick’s shoulders again, because this wasn’t _fair_ –

“Later,” Dick exhaled, and it cracked something inside Jason’s heart.

Go for a movie? _Later_.

Go to the park? _Later_.

Go grocery shopping? _Later, Jason, can’t you see I’m busy._

Make dinner? _Later._

Eat something – drink something – _please Mom, I’m begging you_ –

Later.

Jason stumbled off of the couch, his hands shaking, and he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t help Dick, he – he had school and Robin and Dick needed someone here full-time and Jason wasn’t sure when Dick had last eaten and – and he _couldn’t_ –

Bruce had told him that it was always okay to ask for help. Jason bit his lip and eyed his older brother – it was months since Dick and Bruce had last had a civil conversation, and Jason knew that Dick had only agreed to meet with him on the condition that Bruce didn’t know, and if he did this, then Dick would never speak to him again.

Dick was staring at the ceiling, listless and empty. Jason took a deep, shuddering breath, and called Bruce.

It rang three times before Bruce picked up. “ _Jason?_ ” Bruce asked, sounded a little confused, “ _Is everything okay?_ ”

Oh, right – Bruce probably thought he was still in the Manor. “I’m in Bludhaven,” Jason said quietly.

Bruce was silent for a stretching moment. “ _Bludhaven?_ ” he repeated, his voice gone emotionless.

“I – I asked Dick if he’d – I asked him if he wanted to meet up,” Jason said, casting another glance at his older brother – Dick had made no sign to acknowledge that Jason was talking to Bruce, which was extremely worrisome. “But he’s – he’s – he’s not getting off the couch and he canceled our plans and I don’t know what’s _wrong_ and –”

“ _Jason_ ,” Bruce cut him off, “ _Deep breaths_.”

Jason automatically followed the order, sucking in a couple of steady inhales until his phone no longer felt like it was going to slip out of trembling fingers.

“ _Is Dick injured?_ ” Bruce asked, his voice level.

“I – I don’t think so.” Jason took a closer look, but couldn’t find any gleaming spots of red or limbs at strange angles.

“ _Can you give the phone to him?_ ”

“I don’t think he’s up to talking right now,” Jason whispered, observing the vacant look in Dick’s eyes.

“ _Okay. Jason, I’ll be there in fifty minutes. Call me if anything changes, okay?_ ”

“Okay,” Jason mumbled on automatic, his breath hitching again.

Dick made no sign that he’d heard the call at all.

* * *

Dick knew that his little brother was clutching his hand almost hard enough to hurt, but he didn’t care. He _knew_ that Jason had been planning to come over to go train-surfing, having successfully badgered Dick into agreeing just so he could shut the kid up, but that was a problem for Future Dick.

It was too difficult to care about anything right now. It had been getting difficult to care for a while now, and then Dick had woken up in the morning with the niggling thought that he should clean his apartment before Jason got here, and suddenly, everything had become too much.

Better to stay here, in the fuzziness, and let the world keep its colors. Dick would be gray. Gray didn’t have to be sunny like yellow, or fierce like red, or calm like green, or friendly like blue, or charming like purple. Gray just _existed_ , and that was all Dick could do right now.

He heard the water running, and the crinkle of trash bags, and doors slowly opening and closing. He could smell bleach and laundry detergent. He could feel the soft fabric of the blanket Jason had tugged over him, before the kid had curled up on the floor and clutched Dick’s hand.

He could hear the soft sniffles and quiet, hitched breaths. He just didn’t care enough to do anything about it.

He knew Jason had called Bruce, he’d heard the conversation over the phone, and there had been a moment when annoyance had spiked, almost enough to be called anger, and Dick considered getting up and kicking Jason out and slamming the door in the kid’s face –

And then the spike had subsided and Dick had fallen back into apathy. Let Bruce come. Bruce already knew he was a failure. That was why he’d fired Dick from being Robin, and given it over to a twelve-year-old _child_. That’s why Nightwing was trying desperately to drag Bludhaven out of the darkness, all by himself, like Batman had done with Gotham.

So what if Bruce knew that Nightwing was a failure too. Dick had no illusions about his ability to hide anything from his former mentor.

A quiet knock. Jason jerked up, his grip spasming, before he finally let go and padded to the door. Dick would have to strain to hear the soft conversation happening on the other end of the room, but he recognized Bruce’s low voice and he didn’t try.

The conversation neared him soon enough.

“– and I don’t think he’s eaten anything in a while, I couldn’t find any –” Jason sounded like he was in tears, his voice cracked and hoarse and cut off by sharp, hitched inhales.

“It’s okay, Jason,” Bruce said quietly, “Thank you for staying with Dick while I got here.”

“He isn’t _moving_ ,” Jason almost wailed, “He’s barely speaking – he – is it – is it drugs? I couldn’t find any marks, but –”

Dick would’ve felt sad, if he had the capacity to feel.

“I don’t believe so,” Bruce said firmly, “But I will check.” There was a soft thump as the couch sagged at the far end, something warm pressing into Dick’s shins. “Are you okay sitting here and waiting?”

“Yes,” Jason sniffled.

Some more shuffling, and Bruce appeared in his field of view. His face was lined, a pinched frown smoothing out when he met Dick’s gaze. “Hey, chum,” he said softly.

That wasn’t fair. He wasn’t allowed to sound that soft anymore. He wasn’t allowed to sound _gentle_. He was supposed to be Batman, supposed to be gruff and uncaring and obstinate, he wasn’t supposed to be _Bruce_.

Dick squeezed his eyes shut as a warm hand slowly stroked his hair, thumb rubbing circles on his forehead.

“Dick, sweetheart, are you injured anywhere?”

Dick shook his head. He wasn’t injured. That was what Bruce was here for anyway, him and his stupid savior complex, and Dick didn’t have any wounds for him to fret over so hopefully Bruce would leave.

“Did you get hit with any toxins?”

Another no. Bludhaven wasn’t as crazy as Gotham, there was no fear gas or strange pollens or Joker venom. No, there were just gang wars and corruption and so much crime that it was draining all the hope Dick had.

“Did you take your meds?”

Dick didn’t move. He didn’t have to answer. He was an _adult_. And he wasn’t Bruce’s ward anymore, the man had no obligation over him.

“I – I found this in the bathroom,” Jason said shakily, and the fingers running through his hair stilled for a moment.

“Chum, why haven’t you refilled your prescriptions?” Bruce asked softly, and no matter how hard Dick squeezed his eyes shut, he couldn’t stop the prickling.

The meds were only supposed to be for a year, that was what Aishwarya had said – months ago, because Aishwarya was in Gotham, and Dick had stopped seeing her after he stormed out, and he hadn’t bothered trying to find anyone in Bludhaven.

“Go _away_ ,” Dick whispered, because he didn’t want this, he didn’t want the fingers in his hair and the soft voice and the emotion that was threatening to puncture his fuzzy bubble of gray and force him to face the world. He was tired and raw and _alone_ , and Bruce was just the salt poured over his wounds. “Leave.”

The hand stopped, the pressure easing. “Do you want me to call Alfred –”

“No,” Dick hissed, because he didn’t want _anyone_ , why was the concept so difficult to understand?

“Clark?” Bruce continued softly, “Diana?”

Dick shook his head.

“Barbara? …Wally? …Roy?”

Dick made an inarticulate sound and tried to shove his head further into the couch. “Go away,” he mumbled.

“Dick, I’m not leaving you alone. I can go, but I need to know who you want me to call.”

Dick didn’t want him to call _anyone_. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this. He didn’t want _Bruce_ to see him like this. He just wanted –

“I want to go home,” Dick admitted, quiet and broken.

A second of silence that felt like an eternity. “Okay, chum,” Bruce said, and there was something wet trickling into Dick’s hair, “We can go home.”

Dick heard Bruce’s low, murmured instructions to Jason, he felt the strong arms picking him up like he weighed nothing more than a sack of flour – which was entirely possible, because Dick didn’t remember the last time he’d eaten – and he tasted the salt on his lips as he buried his head against warmth and a steady heartbeat.

Dick was gray. But Bruce was _black_ , and the darkness was a security blanket around his shoulders, the sense of safety that only Batman could impart, a tether connecting him to the world.

The door, opening and closing. A brief flash of sunlight, too bright to be real. A car engine, rumbling beneath him, and his head was pillowed on a bony shoulder as thin fingers gently stroked his hair, accompanied by a low melody in a language Dick only half-recognized.

The car stopped an indeterminate amount of time later. Alfred’s startled exclamation, Bruce’s answering rumble, Jason’s fingers curled around his wrist, warm and steady. Dick knew they’d reached his room the moment they stepped past the threshold – even after months of absence, it still smelled like _home_.

Dick exhaled shakily as he was deposited on top of the bed, immediately curling up – he didn’t want to see the expression on Bruce’s face, he didn’t want to think, he didn’t want to _feel_ – but he was momentarily stymied as a warm cloth was gently rubbed over his face, wiping away his tears and the collected sweat and grime.

Dick blinked his eyes open as the washcloth was removed. Bruce was staring at him with a steady gaze, no trace of disgust or disappointment in his eyes. “Alfred will be bringing up some soup soon,” Bruce said softly, “Can you drink some water?”

Dick managed to tilt his head enough that he wouldn’t choke on the bottle pressed to his lips, and swallowed three gulps before pulling away and slumping back down onto the bed.

“Do you still want me to leave?” Bruce asked quietly. Dick stared at him, and closed his eyes in lieu of giving an answer. He didn’t want to make a decision. He didn’t want to ask for what he wanted.

“I’ll get a projector, and we can watch those cartoons you like so much,” Bruce said, and Dick nodded. “Do you want Jason to leave?”

Dick shifted his gaze to Jason, who was hovering in the doorway, paler than Dick had ever seen him before. Dick took a deep breath, and drew back the covers on the bed.

Jason took slow, wavering steps, unable or unwilling to accept the invitation at face value, but he was clambering on the bed soon enough, and Dick exhaled into dark curls as he pulled his little brother into a hug.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed out, tightening his grip. He’d promised to take the kid train-surfing. One small, tiny thing, and he’d ended up ruining Jason’s day instead.

“It’s okay,” Jason mumbled, accepting the hug with far more grace than he usually did, “We can have a movie night instead. What’re we watching?”

“Roadrunner,” Bruce said, reappearing in the doorway. Dick took a deep breath and shifted until he was sitting up, leaning against the headboard, Jason tugged halfway into his lap.

“What’s that?” Jason asked skeptically as Bruce set the projector up on the bed and connected it to the laptop. He gave Dick a long look before joining them both on the bed, shifting until he was pressed against Dick’s other side.

Dick exhaled softly, and tilted his head until it was resting on Bruce’s shoulder. “You haven’t watched Roadrunner yet?” he asked, his lips twitching as Bruce pressed play, “You’re in for a treat, Little Wing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this was over, and then I needed to write a part 2 with Red-Hood!Jason.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Redhoodnightwing13! I hope you enjoy this chapter and I hope you have a wonderful day!

He hadn’t gone out on patrol. He didn’t know if he _could_ go out on patrol – Bludhaven was gone, an empty crater, and Gotham was Batman’s first and foremost, and Dick had walked away from a heated argument earlier that day because Jason’s appearance as the Red Hood had thrown them all back three years into unresolved grief and guilt and rage – Bruce hadn’t outright forbidden Nightwing to operate, but Dick didn’t have the energy to argue if Batman stopped him.

His city was _gone_.

Dick had tried so hard – as Officer Grayson and as Nightwing – and all of it was for nothing. There was no more Bludhaven anymore. Dick had failed.

The window slid open – soundlessly, but Dick could feel the draft on his face. He knew he’d closed the window. Nobody left their windows open in Gotham, that was just basic common sense.

Dick didn’t hear anyone moving around his apartment, but he could feel the presence. Batman, then. Tim wouldn’t have snuck in. Dick exhaled and waited for the lecture, or the continuation of the argument, or whatever was eating at Bruce _this_ time, sinking deeper into the gray. It wouldn’t hurt if he numbed himself.

The couch he was slumped on was too hard, too new, too fancy – Bruce hadn’t let him pay for a single thing after Dick decided that he couldn’t move back into the Manor, old wounds still too raw, and Dick _hated_ it, hated the couch, hated _Gotham_ , hated –

A sculpted red helmet with white slits for eyes.

“Hood,” Dick greeted. One part of his mind pointed out that Jason had been volatile and unstable since he’d come back, that he’d cut off eight heads and delivered them to the police station, that he left a trail of bodies behind him, that he’d beaten Tim into the ground and tried his best to blow up Bruce. That this was probably Dick’s turn.

The larger part of his mind acknowledged these facts, acknowledged the gun in Hood’s hand, and proceeded to not care.

Hood stared down at him. Dick met his gaze – his little brother, back from the dead and so _angry_ , and Dick didn’t even know what to say to him. What he could possibly do to make it better.

He couldn’t save a city.

He couldn’t save his brother.

Sometimes, he wondered why he bothered at all.

The helmet unlatched with a click-and-hiss, the domino was removed with little fanfare, and Dick was staring up at his little brother’s face for the first time in three years.

He looked older. The last vestiges of baby fat had been replaced with a hard jaw. The scowl that had been cute on the kid was downright dangerous on the adult. There was a stripe of white in his black hair, and Dick didn’t know if it was natural or some sort of statement.

_He’s here_ , a part of his mind whispered, _your brother is_ right _here_. All Dick had to do was reach out an arm to touch him. That was _it_. He just had to fight through the gray and talk to Jason and try to understand why the kid had started killing people and –

Too much. It was too much. Dick realized that his gaze had drifted as Jason made a sharp, displeased sound.

“Did you take your meds?” Jason growled.

Dick wanted to laugh. It was hovering there, behind the amusement, the half-hysterical gut punch that the big, bad Red Hood, terror of Crime Alley, bane of Batman, was asking Dick if he’d taken his antidepressants. Like he _cared_.

To be fair, maybe he did care. Maybe Dick was the only one who couldn’t.

“Not how it works, Jaybird,” Dick said softly. Something dark flashed across Jason’s face and Dick closed his eyes instead of looking at it. “Sometimes bad days are just bad days.”

Not like there had been a _good_ day in the midst of all this.

With his eyes closed, he couldn’t see what Jason was doing, and his little brother moved quietly enough that Dick couldn’t even tell if he was still there. Dick exhaled softly – this was a chance, a moment that showed that Jason still existed behind Hood’s red helmet, and Dick didn’t have the energy to reach out and take it.

He was expecting either silence or a bullet, so he was startled when he was pulled up to a sitting position, snapping his eyes open to be confronted with a water bottle in his face. “Drink,” Jason said harshly, and Dick took the bottle from him and managed a few sips.

Jason was still glaring. An energy bar was the next thing shoved in his face. “Jay –”

“ _Eat_.”

Dick obligingly nibbled on the end for a bit, before he pushed it away. “Thank you, Jason, but I’m not hungry,” he said softly.

“You need to eat,” Jason said testily, bringing the bar back up and nearly shoving it into Dick’s mouth.

Dick grimaced and turned his head to avoid it, automatically wrapping his fingers around Jason’s wrist, “Jay, stop.”

Jason’s hand trembled under his before he withdrew, and Dick sighed, letting his head fall back against the top edge of the couch. There was some muttered cursing from the far side of the apartment, and Dick let his eyes slide shut again.

Jason was here. Jason was alive. Jason still _cared_. He would be thankful for that, and he would tuck the information away for when the gray receded, so he could be properly happy.

His little brother was alive. He had to hold onto that. It was a raft in the sea of misery, and if Dick let go, he was going to drown.

Dick fluttered his eyes open as footsteps reentered the room. For a moment, he didn’t realize what he was looking at.

Jason wasn’t wearing the armor or the leather jacket or the gun holsters anymore, and seemed to have exchanged his whole ensemble with a loose shirt and sweatpants that were far too big to be Dick’s. He turned, caught Dick staring, and deepened his scowl. But he still stomped back over to the couch, threw himself down on it, and didn’t say a word when Dick tipped his head to let it fall on a broad shoulder.

Dick’s vision went blurry and between one blink and the next, wetness was sliding down his cheeks.

“Thank you, Little Wing,” Dick whispered, and prayed that this wasn’t just a dream.

Jason was tense for a long, stretching moment, before he exhaled out a harsh breath and wrapped an arm around Dick’s shoulders. He grabbed the throw and carefully arranged it over them both, and didn’t stop Dick from curling his fingers into Jason’s shirt.

Dick choked on a sob, burying his head further into Jason’s shoulder, and Jason merely tugged Dick closer, until he was half in Jason’s lap. Gentle fingers began carding through his hair, and an old Spanish melody hummed through the air, low and raspy and lilting.

“Shh, Dickiebird. It’s okay.”

* * *

Jason had no idea what he was doing.

Jason had – Jason had _plans_ , because having a clear goal and well-defined steps were the only things keeping him from spending his days in a murderous haze, and one of the side goals on his master plan to Take Over Gotham was to twist the knife into his so-called family.

He’d gotten the Replacement. He’d rattled Bruce. And since Bludhaven was a radioactive pile of rubble, he had the opportunity to get the Golden Boy too.

Only Nightwing had never showed up on patrol, and Jason had made the impulse decision – the _bad_ decision, because most of his impulses ended in violence nowadays – to find his apartment, sneak in, and _take_ the fight he was itching for.

And Dick had looked at him and the gun with an empty stare that terrified a part of him that was too old and too deep for the Pit to touch.

Jason had done a sweep of the apartment – the prescription bottle had the right number of pills in it, so Dick hadn’t been lying, there were boxes and boxes of food in the fridge, mostly untouched, and the dark circles rimming Dick’s eyes caused something to clench in Jason’s heart.

He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t fair to kick a man while he was down, that this was perfect leverage, that he wasn’t doing this to be _nice_ , but none of it explained why he’d changed into clothes that were clearly Bruce’s and sat down on the couch and started humming the same low tune he’d used to sing for his mother whenever she’d been sick.

Jason didn’t know what he was doing, lying down on an uncomfortable couch and staring at the ceiling with his older brother curled up on top of him, steady breathing matching Jason’s heartbeat.

He didn’t know what he was doing, because if he did that would be _worse_ , a truth he wasn’t ready to face, not now, not _ever_ , and as long as he kept ignoring it, it would go away. Hopefully. Maybe. It was a problem for Future Jason.

Dick was shorter and smaller than him, and the part of him that was still the fifteen-year-old waiting for a growth spurt crowed in satisfaction. The feeling was strange, the glimmer of pride untouched by green, and Jason sucked in a sharp breath at the sensation.

How much of his emotions were being affected by the Pit, if he couldn’t even _tell_ unless it wasn’t there?”

Jason tried to think back to the last time he’d felt something that wasn’t tainted by _anger-fury-make-them-pay_ and – and he couldn’t remember.

Dick stirred, probably alerted by Jason’s rapidly rising heart rate, and pushed up, one hand moving to scrub at bleary eyes as he blinked down at Jason.

“Jay?” he said sleepily, before his expression cleared, wiping his face blank as he stared at Jason. “Jay,” Dick breathed out, and Jason was extremely uncomfortable with all the emotions in his voice.

“You planning to stare at me all day?” Jason grumbled, and Dick startled, looking down like he only just realized that he’d taken a nap on top of him. Dick shifted back, somehow managing to brace his weight on the backrest to let Jason pull his legs free, and Jason straightened up.

Dick was watching him like Jason would disappear if he so much as blinked.

“Wash your face,” Jason ordered, “I’m making breakfast.” He was?

Jason slunk to the kitchen and started aggressively opening cupboards. _What are you doing_ , the lime-green part of his mind hissed. _Shut up_ , Jason growled back. He was not dealing with this. Not now, not ever, _no_.

What _was_ he doing?

He was making cornbread and frying hashbrown and mixing berries and yoghurt and if the Pit had a problem with that, it could go fuck itself.

Dick came back, his hair slightly damp at the ends, and took a seat on a bar stool as he watched Jason bustling around the kitchen. He was silent, and Jason correspondingly increased the clatter of utensils – he wasn’t in the mood to talk, and he was getting frighteningly close to losing the threads of his stability.

Jason dropped a bowl of yoghurt and a plate of hashbrown in front of Dick. “Eat,” he said sternly.

Dick did a lot more pushing food around his plate than eating, but the spoon disappeared into his mouth every once in a while, so Jason let it be.

“You were always a good cook, Little Wing,” Dick hummed, picking at the crumbs of the cornbread before he deigned to swallow one.

Considering that Dick had eaten maybe ten bites of the whole thing, Jason was inclined to call bullshit, but given the state of the fridge, ten bites was actually an achievement.

Jason loaded up the dishwasher before he turned back to Dick and braced his arms on the counter. “Where am I taking you?” he asked.

Dick raised an eyebrow.

“I can drop you off anywhere,” Jason said, “So where am I taking you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Star City? Central?” Jason swallowed. “The Manor?”

“You don’t need to take me anywhere, Jaybird, I’m fine,” Dick said, a half-smile stretching across his face. It looked painful.

“Yeah, how about _no_ , Dickface. I’m not leaving you alone right now. I’m offering my services as chauffeur, just tell me where you want to go.”

“I’m fine staying here, Jay, it was just a –”

“ _Not alone_.”

Something sparked in Dick’s eyes, his smile shifting to something softer, “But I’m not alone.”

Jason stared at him. He didn’t know whether he wanted to throttle him, hug him, or scream, and he took a deep breath to prevent himself from doing something rash.

“Putting aside the sheer stupidity of asking a violent murderer to keep you company,” Jason said, managing to keep his voice level as Dick’s smile dimmed, “I can’t take care of you, Dick. I can barely take care of _myself_. I – my temper’s completely shot, and you’re in no state to defend yourself.”

Dick raised an eyebrow, and Jason could already hear the inanities that were going to spill from his lips, the _you won’t hurt me, Little Wing_ and _I think you’re underestimating my skills_ and _I’ll take my chances_ and _I know you’re not like that_ and Jason didn’t want to listen to any of it.

Between a harsh exhale and a slow inhale, Jason had the kitchen knife in his hand, the tip digging into Dick’s throat.

Dick slowly blinked, his fingers white on his fork, tense and still.

“If I lost control, I could slit your throat,” Jason said, trying to keep his voice from trembling. It was why he’d gotten rid of his guns almost as soon as he’d taken his helmet off, unwilling to bring temptation so close to his itching fingers. “And you wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

He could _still_ slit Dick’s throat, before his older brother even got a chance to scream.

“Okay,” Dick said levelly, motionless, “You’ve made your point.”

But he couldn’t let go of the knife. He just had to pull it back and uncurl his fingers and let it clatter onto the countertop, and he couldn’t let go, and the green haze writhed in response to his increasing panic and –

Fingers curled gently around his wrist and slowly, carefully tugged his hand away. Jason forced his hand to unclench, and the knife slid through his fingers to hit the table with a ringing clank.

_I’m sorry_ , Jason wanted to say. _I’m not the little brother you’re thinking of_ , he wanted to scream. _Get away from me_ , he wanted to whisper.

Instead, he exhaled shakily. “So where do you want me to take you?”

Dick stared at him, his face curiously blank. “Home,” he said softly.

Dick apparently didn’t feel the need to pack anything, and Jason kicked his gear under the bed and rummaged to find an extra helmet. The ride was silent – Jason kept his attention on the road, and not on the brother plastered to his back – and short. They were churning through the gravel in the Manor driveway soon enough.

The door opened before they even made it up the steps, which definitely meant someone had clocked them coming through the gate.

It wasn’t Alfred, which Jason had been prepared for. It was _Bruce_ – and Jason was suddenly fifteen years old again, screaming for his father, sand and smoke and blood stuck in his throat –

“What –” Bruce’s lips were almost bloodless. Dick took the last few steps and practically collapsed into Bruce’s arms, melting into the automatic hug.

Jason took a step back.

Bruce stared at Dick, swung his gaze to Jason, and looked back at Dick, his face switching between too many emotions to count.

Jason took another step back.

Dick shifted in Bruce’s grip, tilting his head until he was looking sideways at Jason, and raised a wavering hand in his direction.

Jason swallowed.

_“It’s always okay to ask for help.”_

He slowly climbed up the steps. Bruce opened his mouth and Jason harshly cut him off, snarling, “I’m not doing this for _you_.”

“Jay –”

“No,” Jason hissed, furious, “You don’t get to say anything. Not a single word. If you do, I’ll leave.” He hovered on the threshold, ready to do just that.

Bruce snapped his mouth shut and stared at Jason. He glanced down at Dick and took a deep breath before nodding, his expression smoothing out.

Bruce led them to the family room, and Jason let Dick tug him onto the couch and rest his head against Jason’s shoulder as Bruce fiddled with the TV. The Replacement was half-hidden in the doorway, sheet pale, and Jason fought the urge to growl.

A familiar tune started up as a wolf with a stick of dynamite appeared on the screen, and Bruce hesitated for a long moment before he took the seat on the other side of Dick. Dick promptly swung his legs up into Bruce’s lap, leaning fully against Jason and half-burying his head into Jason’s shoulder.

Jason let him, his gaze fixed on the screen and the stupid cartoon in an attempt to ignore that he was sitting mere inches away from Bruce, who was keeping his word to remain silent but was still being annoyingly distracting.

Somewhere between the second and third short, Jason became aware that there was a growing patch of wetness on his shoulder. “Dickiebird?” he whispered, curling an arm around Dick’s waist.

“I never thought I’d be able to have this again,” Dick said, his voice cracking, “I thought I’d lost it forever.”

Jason tightened his grip.

“Thank you for coming back, Little Wing.”

Jason didn’t respond, staring fixedly at the screen.

It wasn’t perfect. It never was. But maybe – just maybe – it was _enough_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim has a bad day, and his whole family is there to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I had Tim feels.

Tim stared at the ceiling and followed the meandering pattern of paint cracks on the ceiling. It felt like he’d been gazing at them forever. It could very well be that he’d been staring at them forever – time had lost all meaning and the blackout curtains on his windows were shut, leaving the table lamp as the only source of light in the room.

He wanted to turn the lamp off too, plunge the room into the complete darkness that matched the inside of his mind, but the darkness was terrifying. The darkness let him see everything he was trying to forget – Kon and Bart, his mother, his father, Dana, every single one of his failures as Robin, as Tim Drake, as a _person_.

Here, no one wanted him to be a person. Here, Tim could slide into the edges of non-existence and contemplate the thin cracks on the ceiling. Here, Tim could envelop himself in the floaty, fuzzy feeling of numbness and just _not care_.

He had to care as Robin, as the leader of the Titans, as Batman’s partner. He had to care as Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, third scion of the Wayne family, junior in high school, intern in the R&D department of Wayne Enterprises. He had to care as Tim Drake, as Bruce’s son, as Dick’s brother.

But here he didn’t have to wear a mask and feel the plastic chafe at him all day. Here he didn’t have to force himself to feel emotions, feel anything that might tug him back to the pit in his stomach, the seething, roiling mass of guilt and terror and misery and pain so sharp and searing that Tim felt like he was being flayed alive.

Death clung to him like a shroud, and sometimes he didn’t know which side of the veil he was standing on.

The crack split into a wobbly fork, and Tim followed the right path until it ended, three inches from the corner. And then he drew his gaze back and followed the other path down until it intersected with a crack running left-right. That was where they really spiderwebbed out, and Tim dully traced them in clockwise order.

Something scrabbled at his window. He ignored it. He had locked the door and windows and no one would be able to see the light through them. Besides, no one knew he was here. No one cared. Why would they?

What did Timothy Drake, Replacement Robin, have to offer anyone?

Bruce didn’t need another son. Not now that Jason had finally started coming back to the Manor, not after his biological child had been dropped off by Talia al Ghul. Dick didn’t need another brother, not when he had Jason back and had Damian to fuss over.

Tim had only forced his way into their lives because Batman needed a Robin. But Damian made it clear that he was aiming for the position, and it was only a matter of time before Bruce gave it to him.

After all, Tim was the replacement. The placeholder. The imposter, the pretender, the _fake_.

If Jason had still been Robin, Tim’s parents wouldn’t have died. If Damian had been Robin, maybe Kon and Bart would still be alive. If Tim had just stayed with his camera, maybe the universe would’ve never tried to punish him for his hubris.

Maybe the black hole inside his heart wouldn’t exist.

The window slid open with an icy burst of air. Tim ignored it, ignored the form slipping past the curtains, ignored the curl of the sneer aimed at him.

“Father has been searching for you for _hours_ , and you’re just wallowing in your bed?”

Wallowing. It was a good word. Tim was _wallowing_. He suspected it was pathetic, but he was too deep in the fuzziness to care.

“I should’ve expected you were too contemptible to remember to keep your phone charged, you –” Damian cut off abruptly.

Tim remembered his phone ringing. He remembered throwing it at the wall until it stopped shrieking, and sinking back into his bubble of numbness.

“Drake,” Damian clicked his tongue, “I can tell that you’re not asleep.”

Of course he could. He was an assassin, the heir of Ra’s al Ghul, as he so delighted in rubbing in Tim’s face. He’d been trained since before he could walk. Of course he was better than Tim in every way. The perfect choice for Robin.

“ _Drake_ ,” Damian snarled, his tone dropping to murderous. The bed dipped under him, and Damian’s face blocked out the ceiling, set in a fearsome scowl. Tim frowned in a momentary twitch of irritation, before it bled back to numbness.

“Stop ignoring me!” Damian hissed, the cool edge of a blade pressing against Tim’s throat. Murder attempt number three, then.

He suspected he shouldn’t feel so blasé about his impending demise, but he’d gotten used to it. Jason had made it excruciatingly clear that he detested Tim’s presence, and Damian had done the same. No one had stopped them, which pretty clearly cemented the notion that Tim’s job was being the punching bag. Someone to aim frustration at so that resentment didn’t seep out everywhere. And Tim knew he had to put up a good fight, just enough resistance so that they didn’t feel like they were kicking a dog, but right now, he just _didn’t care_.

“Drake?” Damian’s voice abruptly sounded much less murderous, “Timothy?”

That was the first time he’d heard his first name from Damian’s lips.

“Are you ill?” The blade was no longer tight against Tim’s throat.

“Not ill,” Tim managed, because he was getting tired of the questions. Either Damian could slit his throat, or the little brat could _leave_. “Go away.”

Small fingers prodded his cheek and peeled back his eyelids to shine a flashlight into his eyes. Tim managed a low, annoyed groan and turned his head away, too tired to even contemplate pushing the kid off the bed.

“What’s _wrong_ with you?” Damian asked, his voice wavering somewhere between horror and confusion.

Tim managed an unamused chuckle, because wasn’t that the question of the hour? “What _isn’t_?” he muttered.

The bed shifted again, and when Tim opened his eyes, Damian was gone. He turned back to stare at the ceiling, resuming his tracing where Damian had forced him to break it off. He registered the sound of the door opening, and the light from the hallway washing in, but he didn’t care.

He was getting good at not caring.

Voices filtered back somewhere between a minute and an eternity later, Damian’s clipped tones contrasting with a lower drawl.

“Look, I’ll admit I’m not _displeased_ that the Replacement isn’t face-down in a gutter somewhere, but –”

“Something is wrong with him,” Damian hissed.

“So you decided, of all the people in the house –”

“Believe me, Todd, you were definitely my last choice, but no one else is _in_ the house and Father somehow believes that you aren’t the imbecile you pretend to be –”

“You have a funny way of asking for help, demon brat,” Jason snarled, and the light from the hallway fell into shadow, “Timbo, what did you do to make the brat worry?”

“I am not _worried_ –”

“Timmy? Tim?”

Tim traced the last crack, resolutely not looking in Jason’s direction as the older boy rounded the bed. Jason stopped short at the edge, staring at him.

“Tim,” he said, his voice gone nearly emotionless, “Are you injured?”

Tim couldn’t help the scoff. “Why do you care?” he muttered, turning away. It felt like he was putting his back to a predator, but Tim didn’t care.

“Answer the question.”

Maybe if Tim pissed him off enough, Jason would just get it over with. He kept his mouth shut.

The bed shifted again, and a firm grip on his chin forced Tim back to meet Jason’s gaze.

“Answer the question,” Jason said quietly, “Are you injured?”

“No,” Tim mumbled, frozen under the weight of burning green eyes.

“Drugged?”

“No.”

“Are you hurting?”

“No,” Tim rolled his eyes. The irony was not lost on him. Jason’s jaw tensed, a muscle jumping out, before he released Tim’s face.

“Do you have any medication you’re supposed to be taking?” Jason asked slowly.

Tim frowned at him, “No.”

Jason disappeared from view. “Stay here,” he said in a low tone, and Damian immediately snarled at the order.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to get some stuff. _Stay here_. Did you tell Bruce and Dick that you found him?”

“Tt. Of course I informed Father of Drake’s whereabouts so he could call off his search.”

Near-silent footsteps left, and the only indication that Damian hadn’t vanished too was the prickle on the back of Tim’s neck. Tim didn’t know what they were plotting, and he didn’t care. Bruce and Dick weren’t there – he was alone with Jason and Damian, and he didn’t have the energy to defend himself.

_This is going to hurt_ , a part of his mind whispered, but it would be difficult for anything to hurt more than the jagged hole in his heart.

A low grumble announced Jason’s return and Tim didn’t turn to see what _stuff_ he’d gone to get – knives, he assumed, or guns, or –

A cascade of items was dumped in Tim’s lap and Tim made a startled sound as he was dragged upright to slump against the headboard. Jason kicked off his boots and the bed soon dipped under his weight – Tim turned his attention to the objects lying haphazardly over his blanket as he averted his gaze.

They weren’t knives or guns. They were…granola bars and water bottles. Tim poked one of them, as though the illusion would disappear if he touched them.

“Get in,” Jason said sharply, and Damian made a startled sound.

“I don’t – Father – or Grayson –”

“Bruce and Dick were in San Francisco, it’s going to take them another hour to get back.”

Damian made a sharp, displeased sound, but the bed dipped on the other side as he picked his way through the covers. Tim squinted at him, confusion wiggling in past the apathy.

A hand caught his chin again, turning him towards Jason, and Tim couldn’t entirely hide his sharp inhale, eyes squeezing shut as he waited for whatever Jason had planned because he was too tired to stop him and –

A warm, damp cloth rubbed over his face, rough but not painful, swiping off sweat and dead skin and – and it felt like what Tim had always imagined an older brother would be like, tough yet gentle – and it _wasn’t fair_.

Tears soaked into the towel and continued dripping when Jason dropped the cloth. The older boy made a soft, clicking sound before the towel was back, carefully wiping away tear tracks, and Tim choked on a sob and averted his gaze.

Jason dropped the towel and handed him a water bottle. Tim stared at it. “Drink,” the older boy nudged.

Tim drank, water mixing with the salt on his lips. When the bottle was empty, Jason ripped open a granola bar and handed it to him.

“What are you doing?” Tim asked, hollow.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Jason asked levelly.

Tim honestly didn’t even know what day it was.

“I don’t know,” he rasped.

Jason sighed. “Eat,” he said, “Alfred will be back home in ten minutes, and he’ll make you a proper meal, but for now you get a granola bar.”

Tim wondered if the bar had been poisoned, and he warily nibbled on the edge.

Jason dropped fully against his side, a long, distinct line of heat pressing against him, and he raised a remote and pointed it at the never-used TV in the corner. “Apparently the demon brat’s never watched Roadrunner, so today we get to contribute to his education.” Jason punctuated his statement by reaching around Tim and tugging Damian sharply until the kid stumbled fully into Tim’s side.

Damian snarled and they both seemed to have a silent conversation over Tim’s head, but Damian subsided into a sulk and Jason turned back to the TV.

“Why Roadrunner?” Tim asked hoarsely. He couldn’t imagine that the League of Assassins had let Damian watch _any_ cartoons.

“Because,” Jason said softly, “It’s about a clever little bird.”

Tim flushed and ducked his head – he didn’t know what emotion was crawling up his throat and choking him and he forced it down, trying to curl back into the numbness, into the quiet cold.

But Jason and Damian were boxing him in, both warm and present and _there_ , and music started emitting from the TV, and apathy was slipping through Tim’s fingers like smoke.

Nine shorts later, Bruce appeared in the doorway, and the last of Tim’s tenuous self-control cracked at the look on his face. Bruce neared the bed and Jason shoved the packaged bars and bottles further down the bed before tugging Damian towards him – Damian huffed at the interruption, but settled unhappily half on top of Tim as Bruce took his spot.

“Tim,” Bruce said gently, pressing his lips to Tim’s forehead, and Tim broke.

The tears weren’t silent or still, they were deep, wracking sobs and Tim instinctively sought to hide his face, burying it in soft black hair and clutching Damian tightly as he shuddered. He didn’t want to feel any of it – Bruce’s fingers running through Tim’s hair and Jason’s solid weight at his side and Damian’s heartbeat – and Kon’s soft smirk and Bart’s hyperactive cheer and his parents’ smiles – and it was _too much_.

“Tim,” Dick said softly, and there was the sound of a tray being set down on the nightstand before the bed shifted again. Dick’s weight settled near his legs, rubbing his knee through the blanket as Tim cried and cried and _cried_ , letting it all out, unable to stop the onslaught of agony and forced to crack it open lest he be swept underneath it.

He cried until he couldn’t cry anymore, left with a raw throat and sticky eyes and hitched breaths.

On the TV, an uptick in music suggested that the bird had outwitted its opponent yet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this version, Tim and Damian are _both_ Robin when Bruce 'dies' - because Tim wears black-and-red and Damian carries a sword, they are christened Red Robin and Stabby Robin by Gotham's criminals. Dick still doesn't quite believe Tim when he says that Bruce is lost in time, but Tim wakes from his emergency splenectomy to see Damian sitting on his legs, sharpening his sword, while Dick and Jason make it very clear to Ra's al Ghul that _no one_ messes with their little brother.


End file.
